My mother was a hermit. She never left the house. She never went anywhere. That is, in the last decades of her life.
But I remember a time when Mom was cooking wonderful, aromatic food that drew me home from the distance. And I remember her joking and laughing, even making up songs. She wrote love notes to me to let me know she was thinking of me.
Over the years, my mother became more and more depressed. She would sit alone at the kitchen table while Pop and I watched TV in the living room. She would sulk and throw temper tantrums if my father tried to talk to her. It didn't happen overnight, but my mother's tone became dramatically worse the summer of 1996.
The thief, Dawn McSweeney was doing her dirty work, but I didn't know about that until much later.
Read the detailed reports of how Dawn McSweeney robbed and destroyed my family - with the help of her "partners in crime - and the Montreal Police at -